My son turned 14 years old today. Birthday's are milestones we (as humans) set up in order to quantitatively measure age. And although I don't take much stock in human systems, I feel time slipping away as he grows older. My daughter is already eighteen years old. And now my son is fourteen. And it's cliche' to say it was just yesterday that I held my children in my arms, and danced with them across the floor as I nestled their small bodies against my chest. Days of Santa Claus, Easter Bunnies, and hunting for fairies in Luray Caverns are long gone. Games of hide and seek, and tickle-fests, and rides in a red wagon hunting for little gravel rocks to collect as "ammo" are obsolete.
The modern version of my son glides on skateboards, and leaps high on a BMX bike which he is way too tall for. I'm 5'8" and he towers above me. Towers over his father. And my son loves every minute of it. And instead of little gravel rocks, my boy plays with air-soft guns and games online with others in "Modern Warfare."
He texts girls on his cellphone. Often. After they text him.
My son's pants always seem too short no matter how many new pairs we buy him. The bottom of the legs ride up beyond his ankles, and I wonder how many of his friend's parents have looked at him, and his pants, and said, "Can't his mother afford to buy him new clothes?" Which, at the rate he is growing...no I can't.
I never knew motherhood could be so complex. The feelings, the worries, the number of things in the world a parent has to constantly keep up with... I never knew it could be so joyful, and so (ultimately) rewarding. And it's odd, because I stare at this young man in my house, and still get flashes of the time he jumped off the diving board when he was five, and could barely swim, and landed with a solid belly flop only to come up sputtering and ask to do it again. And those flashes cause an odd mix of pleasure and pain like that little jolt of electricity that bites you when you accidentally get shocked from an errant wall socket. Part of you wants to move on and not do it again, but another part of you wants to try it just one more time...
And as my son sleeps this morning, (probably until noon because he more than likely stayed up until two A.M. playing "Modern Warfare" with his friends), I can't help but wonder what tomorrow will bring? Will he stay healthy? Will he grow much taller? What will he decide to become in the future? And when will he bring his first girlfriend (or boyfriend) home to meet me?
Oh, I know worrying about the future is as useless as wishing I could change the past, but I wonder more than I worry. I wonder, and I pray with all the energy I have that each day for him is a better one, and that his mistakes are few but result in a developing awareness and kind understanding toward himself. I pray that my son learns something useful each moment he treads the path of life, and that he values humanity, love and the joy of giving. There are so many things I wish for him. So much I would give if I could, but the greatest gift of all that I can hand to him is that of gently guiding him to the person he was meant to be. A person who I am sure will make a difference in this world, and a good one at that.
